Page 55 of On the Power Play

Assistant Coach Kreviasuk took over, diving into the tactical nuances, dissecting video clips of their previous games with critique. "Here," he pointed at the screen, "is where we need to adjust. The Oilers won't let that pass." He outlined a few play adjustments, then sent them to the ice. Before Jack could exit, he heard his name and turned.

Lisa Carter was there next to the water station. She motioned for him to leave the flood of players and join her. He set his helmet on the bench and leaned his stick against the lockers as she handed him a paper.

"This is a preliminary press schedule for the next week. It's built around your training and game commitments, of course. We were also hoping you could set up a time to film with Country—you're still on good terms from your time with the Snowballs, yes?"

Jack nodded. "I didn't realize you knew anything about my past team."

Lisa smiled. "We're careful about who we bring onto this team, Jack. Even when the fan base is clamouring for movement."

"Yeah. I can reach out to Country." Jack had already told him he'd come on the show when he didn't have a game, he just hadn't put a date on the calendar. He'd been a bit distracted the last week.

"We think it would be best if that was filmed with Delia present, too."

Jack lowered the paper. "That's not up to me. She's recording a new album in Toronto."

"Don't worry about the logistics. I think we've almost got that covered."

Jack frowned. Almost got what covered? It should've been off-putting to be a pawn in a game when he couldn't even see the chessboard, but it didn't. The sensation was normal. That was almost more disturbing than being blindly obedient.

How many times had he shown up to practices and worked his ass off knowing he had no control over what decision would be made behind the curtain? The idea that he could only perform to the best of his ability and then he'd have to cross his fingers and pray for the rest had been ingrained in him since the time he could barely skate.

"Okay, I'll rearrange my schedule to make sure I'm available." Jack folded the paper and walked back. A metal clank made him jump. He opened his own locker and slipped in the paper, then went down the front aisle to see what the ruckus was.

Jack smiled to himself. Liam MacDonald, a Rookie from Boise, Idaho, scrambled to put on his clothes. "You need anything?" Jack asked.

Liam grunted. "I don't need smug-ass comments."

Jack stopped on the other side of his locker. "I was a hardship claim, bud. I'm the last person in here who's going to judge you for showing up late to practice."

Liam looked up, then shoved his head through the neck hole of his jersey. It was enough for Jack to see the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and watery. He was either high at the moment or severely hungover. A pit opened up in Jack's stomach. Liam had to be nineteen, barely, and Jack remembered what that looked like. He hadn't even been signed to an NHL team and he still could've been at parties four nights a week if he wanted to. The drugs. The women throwing themselves at him. Here are all these attractive men who aren’t emotionally available because they’ve had boobs in their faces since high school. That comment out of Delia’s mouth had stung.

The truth was, Jack would've been sucked in like the rest of them without Brad and James to keep him on the straight and narrow. They were at the gym religiously every morning at six, and since he was rooming with them, the peer pressure to get his ass out of bed and join them was intense. Especially since they were all competing for the same NHL slots. Then a few years later, Brad introduced him to his cousin Angela. At that point, any speck of desire that had existed for him to party had been extinguished. The boys kept him focused, and Ange had kept him safe. He'd seen plenty of guys burn out, get DUI's, OD, or stop caring because they liked weed and porn more than working till they puked at practice.

"I'm Jack Harrison." He put out his hand, but Liam didn't take it.

"Yeah. I know who you are."

"You're strong out there on the ice. It's impressive." Jack wasn't pandering. He'd noticed MacDonald at his first practice. The kid was as quick as a loon taking flight over Muskoka and almost as graceful. Plus he had a shoulder on him. And enough angst to fuel it.

"Thanks, Gramps."

Jack chuckled. "You're a little shit. That's okay, though. I was, too." He clapped him once on the shoulder pad and exited the dressing room.

Practice went fast, especially because Jack felt like he was huffing paint. His lungs burned, which made no sense. He'd only spent twenty-four hours at lower altitude, and even though he took the evening off to hang out with Delia and Mary, he'd still done sets at the gym before his flight. He was going to have to find a way to squeeze in more conditioning, especially if his media appearances were going to take him away from practice.

After he showered, Jack looked over the sheet Lisa had given him and compared it with his calendar. He'd gotten to the following Monday when a message popped up. His heart snagged when he read Delia's name. He clicked on the message.

You get home ok?

Yep, just finished practice

Jack typed out a few options for what he could ask her but then deleted them. Did you get home safe? Seemed a little late to ask that question. He'd thought about texting the night before, but a midnight text felt weirdly intimate when she knew he was alone in the hotel room she'd just vacated. Did you have a good day? Lame. And unnecessary. They didn't need to know about each other's days. They only needed to know where their next meeting was. But Delia had just asked if he got home safely . . .

When will you be home?

The tips of Jack's fingers tingled. Why did she want to know that? Why did he want her to know that?

Packing up. I'll be home in thirty. Everything good?

---